Two CSIs and a Baby
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: Mac and Stella get tipsy at Lucy’s christening, and a strange arrangement ensues… SMACked, and T for adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Two CSIs and a Baby**

**Summary**: Mac and Stella get tipsy at Lucy's christening, and a strange arrangement ensues… SMACked, and T for adult themes.

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the CSI franchises, which I assume belong to CBS and its cohorts. I would quite like to borrow Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?

**A/N**: Set over the period September 2009 to June 2010 but written before 6.1 was shown so, if anything too astonishing happens in Season 6, possibly subject to sudden change: according to the spoilers CBS already seem to have f**ked up the continuity, so heaven knows what they'll do later on! This started off as a piece of happy fluff, but soon flexed its muscles into something a bit more serious.

Chapter 1 – September 2009

"I'm telling you, Linds, they did it! I heard the conversation – Mac and Stella did the deed in that fancy hotel your parents paid for."

Lindsay7, nursing their freshly-christened daughter Lucy and looking sceptical, wrinkled her nose. In her opinion, it was unlikely that after fifteen years of working together without doing 'the deed', Mac and Stella would ever get around to it: and anyway, if they did, she would know. She had those two sussed: she would know.

But she was curious as to why her husband thought _he_ knew. "What conversation, Danny?"

Danny's accent, broad New York at the best of times – though he always tried to tone it down – flattened out when he became excited. It was very flat now. "I heard them talking the next morning – unmistakeable. She said, 'did we really' and he said 'yes' and she said 'how do you feel' and he said he felt OK and she said 'it was just the booze' and he said that was OK and they wouldn't talk about it again if she didn't want to and she laughed and said 'bit embarrassing' and he said 'that's what you get for too much champagne' and she said 'thanks' and then I spun outta there." He paused for breath. "What do you think they were talking about?"

Lindsay shrugged slightly. "It could have been anything, Danny. Circumstantial evidence – hearsay?"

"Nah." Danny shook his head, grinning happily. "They got it together, I'm positive. Good for them."

His wife smiled, pleased to see him pleased, and pleased too that her bosses, neither with a track record of romantic happiness, might have found it at last. She cradled Lucy closer, and wondered what had really happened…

* * *

"Anyone seen Mac?" Stella asked. The hotel – one of the best in Montana, and certainly the best in Bozeman – and its beautiful grounds were full of holidaymakers and business travellers as well as those in their christening party, so it was perhaps a vain question.

Lindsay's parents – astonishingly lovely people who could have produced no other daughter – had volunteered to take over the arrangements for their granddaughter's christening after the appalling events of the previous May. Normally, Danny would be the one running around organising it all – and then, Lindsay privately thought, throwing in the towel and finding a freelance priest somewhere on the quiet so he didn't have to organise anything more – but Danny wasn't doing anything like that right now, and it was with something like relief that Lindsay had handed things over to her parents and let them get on with it. The result was a far more elaborate affair than either she or Danny would have wished: it would indeed be something to remember.

But now it was late afternoon, and the festivities were at last winding down: Lucy was asleep, some of the guests had left, those that were staying over were lounging in the warmth of the garden waiting for dinner, and almost everyone had had just a little too much to drink.

Lindsay looked at Stella as she asked her question. "No – he wouldn't have left, would he?"

Stella shook his head. "What, abandon his god-daughter to her wayward parents? I don't think so."

Lindsay felt mischievous. "Why don't you go and find him?"

Stella stood. "Yeah – I might do that. Coming?"

"No – I want to make sure Danny's OK." She waved across the lawn towards her husband, sitting comfortably on the veranda. "You go."

* * *

Stella picked her way carefully across the lawns and flowerbeds that made up the extensive grounds of the hotel. She had worn even higher heels than usual, teamed with a translucent cream outfit that, once she had begun to grow warm in the Montana sun, had become slightly more translucent that she had planned. She had noticed both Mac and Adam looking at her appreciatively more than once, though: and what was a sexy outfit for if it didn't – well – make you look sexy?

It was unlike Mac to desert his post: she'd seen him grazing the beer, and hoped he was OK. It was obvious that the ceremony had moved him: as he held his god-daughter a smile had melted his usually taciturn features and, as he had made his promises – which were clearly not merely empty ones – his eyes had filled with tears. One had splashed onto little Lucy's cheek, and she had swiped at it with a chubby, uncoordinated hand, staring up in blinking surprise at the man from whom the rain fell. Stella didn't think anyone else had seen it: but if Mac was embarrassed at letting his emotions show it could explain why he might have drunk more than was good for him.

She too had taken liberal advantage of the bar: it wasn't every day you celebrated a perfect new life coming into the world.

None of which helped her find Mac. The autumn roses were beautiful: but he wasn't in the rose garden. Black swans drifted serenely on the flower-strewn river: but he wasn't by the water. Neither was he in the rock garden, the children's playground or the fernery. She was beginning to despair when she caught sight of a signpost to the maze. That's where he would be, she realised: not wanting to be found too easily, but not wanting to go too far. He was a complicated man, she thought, and not entirely happy. Grimacing to herself, she set off.

The maze was well-kept, its box hedges thick and impenetrable. But they were less than six feet high and if she jumped she could easily see over them: the path to the centre was obvious. As she approached she heard voices – a high, excited one, and then the lower, more moderated tones of a man. Undoubtedly Mac.

She stopped, an unpleasant twisting in her gut. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't be alone. What if he'd come here to be private? What if he'd come here on a romantic liaison? The thought stabbed through her, surprising in its jagged sharpness. Oh, she knew Mac was attractive – who didn't? – but the strength of her instinctive reaction took her by surprise. He was a free agent, after all – he didn't belong to her or to anyone. There was no reason to feel angry that he might have found someone to…

But, as the voices drew nearer, she realised that at least one of them was that of a child.

Turning a corner, she found her quarry in a small grassy clearing. Mac was seated on the ground, his jacket thrown over the bench behind him, his tie and shoes discarded; and the suddenness of seeing him made her catch her breath. She watched him, unobserved, and realised as if for the first time just how handsome he was: handsome in a lazy, effortless way that was uniquely his own. In another age, he would have been a tragic, charismatic hero; in this, he was the only man who could throw her into complete confusion and have no idea of the effect he was having. She had to speak.

"Mac! What are you doing here?"

He turned towards her, and she saw that his hands were spread, something suspended between them. What the hell…? Then she saw two small children – someone's nephews or cousins – as they carefully took the stretched string in their fingers and clumsily manipulated it. Suddenly, it was on the boy's fingers, and Mac's hands were free.

"You got it!" he said amiably. "Stella – come sit with us."

Oh yes, she thought as she walked across the grass. He'd definitely been drinking. His smile, unconscious and fuzzy as he looked at his small charges, was beautiful.

"Hey," one of the children said. A boy of about seven, he was struggling with the string, and continued to do so until his companion, a slightly younger girl, grasped the strands and deftly manoeuvred them onto her own fingers and thumb.

"Hi, there," Stella replied, and then repeated her question. "What are you all doing here?"

"We're playing cats' cradles. Uncle Mac is teaching us cats' cradles."

"Cats' cradles?" Stella almost mouthed the words, staring at Mac in disbelief. "_Uncle Mac?"_

Mac smiled again, and motioned her to sit beside him: bemused, she did so. "It's an English thing – well, Peyton showed me, and I've been showing Evan and Charlie. 'Uncle Mac' is too – he was a character from the 1950s, and these two seem to have been talking to their grandparents, and liked the fact that I shared his name."

"Wow." Stella was lost for words. Mellow Mac was something else.

"Actually," Mac said suddenly, "you shouldn't sit on the ground in that. Here – let me help you up."

He scrambled to his feet and reached down to her. Now, Stella was even more confused: the whole situation was surreal. Mac playing with children, Mac slightly fuzzy with drink, Mac helping her up… Without thinking, she stretched out her hand to meet his, and he carefully pulled her upright. She had to admit, it was a good sensation, surrendering power for a few seconds. Especially as, once she was standing, Mac seemed in no hurry to break the contact. She saw his gaze flick her up and down, and felt a shiver of appreciation.

It was only the champagne – she knew that – but he held her hand naturally and easily, with gentle confidence. She knew he cared for her – he'd told her so, all those months ago in Greece – but she wished he cared for her more. After a moment, he began to caress her hand with his thumb, for all the world as if… He raised his eyes, and she smiled: a gentle smile, but one that held amusement, too.

And it must have been the amusement he saw, because he stepped back quickly, almost treading on little Evan, dropping her hand as if it had begun to scald him. "Sorry," he muttered. "I – er – was holding the children's hands…"

Stella stared. This was becoming increasingly bizarre: she had to pull things back to reality before Mac turned into a mad hatter, or a white rabbit appeared from a hole in the ground. But for a few moments all she could think of was her hand in Mac's, how gentle his touch had been, and how natural it had felt there. Almost as if designed for it.

Which – she shook herself – it was not. Work relationships did not – repeat, did _not_ – work. Mac and Peyton – her and Frankie – Danny and Lindsay – well, there was always one to break the rule. If only, she thought, in a rare moment of self-indulgence. If only.

As if to prove Mac's point and break the tension, Charlie grabbed her hand, making her jump. The string edifice hung, straggling, at her side, and she looked sorrowful and expectant. "Can you make cats' cradles?"

"No, sweetie – only – er – only Uncle Mac can do that."

The child turned to Mac and held out the length of string. "Start again?"

Stella gazed enchanted as Mac crouched down, looking at the children with what seemed to be real affection. She tried to be unaware of the way his trousers stretched tight across his thighs, and almost succeeded: this really wasn't the time or the place. Wrapping the twine slowly around his hands, he caught it in his fingers until a patchwork mesh of string criss-crossed between his hands. Then he offered them to Charlie, who confidently grabbed two intersections, pulled them up, around, under, through – it was too complicated for her to follow – and then away, leaving her with a new arrangement laced between her own fingers. She showed them to Mac, who repeated the actions, resulting in – something different again. The girl followed suit, and finally was left with string running from hand to hand in tram lines – the end of the game.

She sighed in contentment, evidently finding the entertainment completely satisfying. Then, in the way of children, she changed tack and held her arms out. "I want to go home now."

Without a word, Mac stood and scooped her up: she wrapped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. He slipped his feet into his discarded shoes, then turned to Stella, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Do you want to grab Evan? I think it's time we got back."

In a daze, Stella took the small boy's hand and picked up Mac's jacket, and together the four of them made their way through the trees and across the gardens until the hotel came into view. She looked at the way his hands encircled the child in his arms, the infinite gentleness and care with which he held her close, but not too tight. She tried to find a word for it, but could not. Then, as they reached the lawns once more, it came to her: 'complete'. The child made Mac complete.

Who was this man she was walking with, two children in tow as though they were a nuclear family? Who was this person who interacted so easily with youngsters he'd never met – so easily, in fact, that one of them was content to be carried in such a fashion? Who was this Mac, whom she'd never seen behave like this before? No – she corrected herself – she had. Perhaps after all she shouldn't be surprised: she remembered the little boy whose aunt had been killed in the Manhattan Museum of Science – some years ago now – and how Mac had sat with him, talking and sympathising and being everything a father should be. It had been a beautiful thing to see then, and it still was now: the little girl's trust was absolute.

She looked at the soft, pale childish curls nestling against the short, dark adult hair, and felt a stab of longing. Why, she wondered, had Mac and Claire never had children?

"Mom!" Evan's piercing scream cut through her thoughts: he loosed himself from her grasp and ran towards the lazing adults. Mac's burden too wriggled free, and joined her small companion in the headlong rush. Mac watched her go and smiled.

Stella swallowed, conscious that her insides were tingling in a glorious, most unprofessional, way. She had to get a grip…

But now he was holding a hand out to her, in full view of everyone – oh dammit, why did he have to get tipsy in public? Why couldn't it have been just the two of them, alone somewhere with no-one else for miles, when she could have – could have – could have reached out a hand back to him, just like she was doing now?

No! She couldn't do it. There was too much baggage, too much history weighing her down. "I'm fine," she said brightly, deliberately misunderstanding his gesture. But, as she drew level with him – struggling on her unsuitable heels – he took his jacket from her, leaned in and whispered.

"Sure you wouldn't like me to carry you too?"

She was astonished: this wasn't like Mac at all! But she recovered: she rather liked this flirty version of her staid old friend, his features and primness softened by alcohol and sunshine. "Not in public!" she whispered back, surprised at herself. Briefly, she imagined being in Mac's strong, enclosing arms, carried across the lawns like some Victorian heroine. Ludicrous, she thought. Ludicrous. And lovely.

They walked towards a pair of cushioned seats just beyond the dappled shade of a huge buddleia. Mac slung his jacket over one shoulder; his other arm, despite Stella's embarrassment, was draped around her shoulders. He wasn't holding her, more using her as a theatrical prop, but the movement and the touch were so natural and unforced that her instinct – scarcely resisted – was to turn into him and complete the embrace: she was desperate for more of that light, elusive contact. When she sat down, she was giddy with shock and perplexity and not a little lust. She was grateful to have made it this far: the last half hour had yielded so many surprises that she needed time to consider them – especially, she thought, the touch of Mac's hand – for future reference.

"Sir? Ma'am?" One of the ubiquitous yet virtually invisible waiters materialised at their side. "May I provide you with refreshment?"

"Thanks," said Mac. "I'll have a beer. No – two beers. Stella?"

"A dry white, please." She glanced at Mac. "Too much champagne."

"Mmm." Closing his eyes, he settled back and raised his face to the Montana sun. It streaked his features and hair with copper and gold. Oh God, she thought: here you are, drunk and mine for the taking: and here I am, far too proper to even think about it. Well, of course, she was _thinking_ about it, but…

Too much champagne.

* * *

_Tap tap tap._ Stella turned over in her sleep.

_Tap tap tap._ Stella opened her eyes.

_Tap tap tap._ Stella sat up in bed: someone was at her door. She fumbled for the bedside clock: what the hell time was it? Three thirty…

_What?_

She padded softly across the plush carpet. Who would be at her door at three thirty in the morning? A thread of wickedness snagged itself into her mind. Dare she hope? No, that would be foolish. He was far too tipsy to have woken up yet.

Opening the door, she peered into the night-lit gloom of the hallway, and thought her heart would hammer its way out of her chest. There, still with his day clothes on – though they were somewhat rumpled now – stood Mac, his expression half-way between laughing and serious, looking rather like a little boy who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar once too often.

Suddenly scared, she didn't think: she grabbed him, pulled him into the room and whispered frantically. "Mac! Are you OK?"

"Yes. I'm fine." She could hear from his voice that he was still feeling the effects of yesterday's drink.

"Then why are you at my door at this time of night?"

"I – I wanted to apologise."

"What? You woke me up to…"

"Apologise. For my behaviour this afternoon."

"What? Are you crazy? It's three thirty in the morning, Mac – couldn't it have waited another six hours?"

"Sorry. I've been thinking. I guess I must have lost track of time."

"Thinking?" Now she was getting annoyed. "Thinking?" She sighed in exasperation. "Look, I'll make some coffee, yeah?"

He sat down on the bed. "Yeah. I need to talk to you, Stella."

"Mac, are you OK?"

He looked up at her. "Got a hell of a headache."

"Lie down – no, properly. I'll make the coffee."

She filled the cafetière, and waited for the grounds to suffuse into the steaming water. They said it took coffee some four hours to kick in – she reckoned Mac would be just about human by eight o'clock. Whatever had possessed him to get up at this unearthly hour to find her? He'd been flirting yesterday, yes – but it was only harmless banter. Many people wouldn't call it flirting at all – yet he was concerned enough to come here now? What needed talking about that couldn't wait?

God, he needed to loosen up a bit…

Hearing a strange noise, she turned to make sure he was all right: and saw him, sprawled on her bed – _her _bed – limbs untidily everywhere, sound asleep and snoring like a foghorn in winter. She stared at him.

_Oh great!_ she thought. _Mac's in my bed, fast asleep, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it. Where the hell am I going to sleep? _It wasn't a question she thought she'd ever have to consider, sharing a room with Mac.

Irritated, she crossed to him: he was unconscious, mouth open, limbs relaxed, eyelids dancing under the influence of some dream. Dammit – even in this ungainly pose he was beautiful! Gingerly, she loosened his belt – longing and not wanting to touch the bulge below – and unfastened the snag of his trousers. That would be enough to keep him comfortable, she reckoned. Or maybe she should roll down the zipper, just a little way, just to be sure…

She brushed him – whether deliberately or not, even she didn't know – and he moaned. Snatching her hand back, she fled to the sofa and curled up in a panicked, quivering heap. But although he stopped snoring he didn't wake, and soon she was alone with the prospect of making herself comfortable without the benefit of bedclothes once more.

She had no doubt that, if she curled up beside him, he would put an arm around her, maybe smile lazily and hazily and perhaps even kiss her goodnight, and then fall asleep again. There could be nothing wrong in it: she wouldn't be taking advantage, or doing anything against his will. Yet she would never dare if he was awake…

Tentatively, she crept back to the bed, and lay down behind him, fitting her body to the shape of his, almost but not quite touching. She pulled the duvet over them both – he had discarded it when he flopped down – and put a light arm around his waist. Before she had realised what he was doing, he had covered it with his own, pulling it into him with a contented sigh. _Oh well,_ she thought, _it's all right –_ _he's still got his clothes on._

Burying her head in his shoulders, she fell asleep enveloped in Mac's warmth, accompanied by the rich smell of undrunk coffee and the soft sound of breathing in the still, silent night.

* * *

_To be continued in Chapter 2_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – September/October 2009

"What's this?" Stella looked around in confusion as Mac took her hand – Mac took her hand! – and guided her past the economy check-in to business class. "Mac – we're flying economy – I can't afford $1,000 for 400 miles!"

"I can." He stopped and turned to face her. "I wasn't so drunk last night that I don't remember what I said, and I'm not doing it surrounded by screaming kids and starving students."

"You said…?" She didn't actually remember much of what he'd said – hadn't thought she needed to take notice of it. She did remember the warmth and the feel of him, but that wasn't on offer here.

"I need to talk to you about something. Come on – here we are."

They arrived at a small check-in desk, staffed by a very blonde woman in the very sky blue livery of Dutch airlines. Mac handed over their tickets. "You – bought the tickets?" Stella said stupidly.

"Well you can't fly without them," Mac whispered.

"No – I – how much…" She gathered herself. "I hope we'll get a refund on the others."

Mac grinned. "Stella."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

* * *

It was a small aircraft, seating perhaps only seventy, but its size and the fact that they were in expensive seats guaranteed them the undivided attention of the flight attendants. Which, it seemed, was not what Mac wanted.

After one particularly assiduous attendant's third foray to their seats – snugly in the centre of the cabin, with a spectacularly unimpeded view from the window – Mac asked, somewhat brusquely, to be left alone. Stella couldn't help noticing the knowing look in the attendant's eyes, and stared in hostility at her retreating back.

She took a deep breath: time to face the music. Though what sort of music, she had no idea.

"OK," she said, "What's going on?" Mac was silent. She turned to face him – he had insisted that she take the window seat – and saw that he was looking down at his hands, clasping and unclasping them in his lap. He looked nervous. "Mac?"

He looked up, but didn't meet her eyes: instead, he stared out at the impossibly white clouds below them. On the ground it had been a dull, grey morning: up here, the sun's light was glorious and undiminished. He took a breath. "Last night… Last night I said I had something to talk to you about."

"Yeah?"

He grimaced. "Well I'm not so drunk now, so it's more difficult."

"Mac – I'm your oldest friend. Best friend." She didn't know if either of those assertions was true, but she wanted them to be. "What can't you say to me?" She could make a list: _I'm getting married, I'm leaving the lab, I have terminal cancer…_ Please God, none of those.

He smiled, but still didn't look at her. "We used to live on the same floor as a couple called the Emersons. They moved there just after we did, and by the time I left – they had six kids. They started off in the apartment next to ours – they had two then – and ended up taking the next apartment along as well, just to give themselves room. They had one in his name, one in hers – and they knocked holes in the walls and put in doors to make it one huge apartment. They had bookcases on wheels that they slid across when the super came up. I don't know if he ever knew.

"We used to baby-sit. In the end, it got too much, but it was fun at first. Claire – Claire always hated giving them back at the end of the evening. She was daft with kids…"

He paused, lost in remembrance for a moment. Stella wanted to reach out a hand, but did not.

"Anyway, they produced more than enough kids to make up for us," Mac went on. "I even had a test to see – well, we knew Claire was OK – but it was just – 'bad luck', they called it. I wasn't in any hurry – I thought we had years. And secretly I was kind of relieved, each time – I hadn't had a father since I was a kid, I didn't know how to be a father – I was afraid of letting Claire down.

"So it suited me fine when none came along – and then, the last two years – she began to change. New Year's Eve 1999 – I guess a lot of rethinking of lives was going on then. She said she really wanted to try: not just 'letting it happen' like we'd been doing, but really try. I was terrified. But the bad luck went on, and by the time – just before she died, we were talking about alternatives. IVF, adoption – not things I'd ever considered. I would have done, if she'd wanted.

"I wish – I wish I hadn't been scared. I wish I hadn't waited. I took that away from her. If we'd been in earnest earlier – who knows what might have happened? But I wouldn't, and she didn't pressure me till too late."

He sighed. "Whenever I come across kids – a part of me just wants to take them home. Not for them – for me. Then I stamp it down and it's gone, till the next time. Holding Lucy – " his voice broke, and now Stella did take his hand. He did not return her pressure. "All those children we never had," he whispered. "Something Claire and I never got to do."

His breathing was heavier now, and when Stella looked at him she saw that tears had rolled down his cheeks. He brushed them away impatiently.

"Sorry. You'd think that eight years – well, gone now." He tightened his hand around hers. "You know, those kids had never played cats' cradles? They loved it – they say give a child a cardboard box and it'll be happy. They were fascinated by a piece of string. I – I miss not being able to give someone that kind of love." He looked at her suddenly. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Miss having children."

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. The question was so unexpected that she couldn't even think of a flippant answer, let alone a serious one. "I – I – " The tiny baby abandoned by its rich parents for a European trip, then given back because they weren't really bad parents – the little boy cut from his mother's dead body and finally in the arms of his grandparents – these and other images that she didn't know she'd remembered slammed into her mind. "Yes," she said, in something like surprise. Why had she said 'yes'? She'd never even thought about it…

Not consciously, anyway.

Mac took a deep breath. Here it comes, Stella thought. "I always assumed I'd have kids. I – I wasn't always an only child, and having kids gave my mom and dad so much pleasure…" Stella blinked and tried to take it all in. This was information she might never be offered again, information precious to the speaker, and that she'd never known before. "When my sister died, and it was just me, my mom said 'it's all up to you now, Mackie – to carry on the Taylor-Mackenzie genes'. There was never any pressure, but… I was all she had, and I guess she always looked to me to give her grandchildren – something to remind her of…" He broke off, clearly having been taken down a road he wasn't yet willing to travel. Stella squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, glancing at her with gratitude in his eyes.

Then he stared out the window again. "It didn't happen with Claire – when mom died I knew she wanted to tell me it was OK, that I hadn't let her down, but…" His eyes grew wet again. "She couldn't. She never was any good at telling untruths, my mom. Tried, though – she did try.

"And now it's too late."

"Mac – you're a young man! You're…" What could she say without exposing her feelings, and intruding on his? "There are women out there who'd give their I-teeth to be with you. It's not too late!"

"The point is, Stella," he said quietly, "would I want to be with them? I want – I mean I would want – the mother of my children to be clever, intelligent, witty, bright, fun – I'd have to spend a lot of time with her after all. Who the hell would put up with me? And it's the years taken to get to know someone – you can't go up to a stranger and proposition them. Well, I can't. No, I've run out of time."

"Mac – oh – no, don't say that." She placed a hand on his cheek. "It's never too late – you know that. We've seen so many broken lives rebuilt – your kids would be so beautiful…" she stopped and looked down. That was a close one: she'd be calling him beautiful to his face next.

Her heart ached for him. All she had to do was reach out, take him in her arms, reach up for a kiss… Yet, if he'd wanted that, surely he'd have said so by now? No, he didn't want her – an available, known woman – presumably she wasn't clever or witty enough. She felt momentarily bitter. She would have given him everything, and all he wanted was…

She took her hands back, and stared at them. Her best friend, her respected colleague, the man she would dearly love to count as her own, was pouring his heart out to her – telling her secrets she hadn't even suspected –and all she could do was think of her own desires? _Shame on you, Stella,_ she thought. _Shame on you._ She linked her arm with his, interlacing their fingers, and wrapped his hand up in her own. He might not want her love, but he sure as hell would know that he had it.

"Stella…" She raised her face to him: open and receptive and free of all self-pity. How she would love him! And here was her opportunity.

"I'm here, Mac. Always."

He hardly seemed to hear her. Instead, he played with her hand until she nearly cried out in frustration. Then, finally, he spoke. "Would you consider – I mean, do you think it would ever be possible – you're my dearest friend, Stella, and I care for you without reserve – you're everything I could ever want, but… If we did everything properly and didn't do anything you didn't want to and I know it would change everything completely – for ever – but little Lucy and those kids and it all seems to have come rushing at me, all at once… Could you have children with me?"

He stopped. Through the meandering, desperate byways, he had finally managed to say what he'd been working towards. There was a silence, and it occurred to Stella that he was waiting for an answer.

She could hardly believe what she thought she'd just heard. She swallowed, and tried to process his words. She shook her head slightly: it was too much to take in. And yet… To carry Mac's child – to give birth to Mac's child…

It was beyond imagining: she couldn't get her head round it, simple concept though it was. Holding Mac's child in her arms... She wouldn't do it. She couldn't do it. Loving him – oh yes, she wanted to be loving him – but a baby? Pain, worry, suffering, family.

Family. His had clearly been loving, and it had known tragedy too. But he must have adored his mom… Family for her had been foster homes, some good, some not so – a friend sworn to sisterhood in blood, an escape as soon as she was able… Family was the lab: Mac, Danny, Adam, Lindsay, Sid, Don. This was family – these people were family. Mac was family – her brother, her father, her son – oh God, what would Freud say about that?

But Mac was family. And you do things for family that you wouldn't do for anyone else. Even give Mac a child when he didn't love her.

Perhaps it would make him love her – perhaps being together would make him love her? Perhaps he would grow into loving her without even realising it, and one day they would wake up together and find that the love was right there, in the room with them. Perhaps he would whisper 'I love you' after all, as they made love in –

Woah! Oh no – no, no, no! Making love – Mac – making love…

She whimpered slightly: why, she didn't know. The thought of Mac – doing that – to her… She grew hot. But without love… Did she, she wondered, have enough for both of them? Could she go through with something that ought to be the pinnacle of her existence, but which instead would just be – practical plumbing?

For Mac? _For Mac?_

It would break her heart.

She took a deep breath. For Mac, she would do anything. For Mac, she would lie down in front of an oncoming train. She stopped: would she? Or would she sit by the side of the tracks, screaming, wishing she could be stronger?

She became aware of movement: the world might have paused for her, but it hadn't for the plane. Every second took them nearer New York, nearer having to do something, even if it was only getting up out of her seat and walking away. If Mac was going to get an answer, it had to be here.

"I – that's quite a surprising request," she said. "It's not one I get very often. Have you thought – I mean – how? How?"

Mac smiled. "Well – the normal way, I suppose. I – no, I guess that wouldn't be appropriate. I'm sorry – not thinking. Erm – syringe?"

"Ugh – God, Mac, what? Syringe?"

"Large syringe," he clarified.

She pulled a face, visualising contortions in her bathroom as she – no, oh no, it didn't bear thinking about.

"Of course," he said, "I'd prefer the traditional method, but I wouldn't impose that on you. Never."

She fell silent again. This was her opportunity to say something large and moving and wonderful, and all she could think of was that Mac didn't seem to want to touch her. That old selfishness rearing its head again. And yet – it was a lot he was asking. Just the rest of her life…

She would always be with Mac if she did this. She would always have Mac's cells running through her veins – well, for at least seven years or so – wasn't that how long it took for the body completely to renew itself? And a child would have their DNA, combined in irreversible, interlocking twists and turns that no-one, not even his God, could untie. She would always have a part of him – not his love, which was the part she craved, but almost everything else.

How bloody ironic.

But that wasn't a good reason for saying yes, she knew that. She had to say yes because she meant it, because she was willing to sacrifice a part of herself for Mac – as, she knew, he would do for her. It had to be for him, and any fringe benefits that might accrue to her would be just that – fringe. And the child – children – must be paramount. Their health and welfare was far more important than either hers or Mac's – but he would understand that. He was wise, and good, and knew stuff like that. Who else understood her so well?

They began to dip below the clouds: New York couldn't be far away. She had to give him a reply: make a decision that might change, irrevocably, the rest of her life. She took a deep breath. "Mac…" He gripped her hand more tightly. She looked him in the face, forcing him to do the same to her. "Let's do it. Let's take the chance, yeah?"

He grabbed her and held her close: she felt the shudders pass through him, but when he drew back his face was shining with a fierce joy.

"Um," she continued, "I – think we'll go for the traditional delivery method. In the first instance. I – I don't get on with syringes."

* * *

Their first attempt at following in the Messers' footsteps was something of a disaster.

Both were tired after a long day at the lab: Stella had assiduously worked until the last possible moment, not wanting to appear inappropriately keen, and by the time she had eaten and taken a cab to Mac's apartment, was almost shaking with a mixture of fatigue, anticipation and dread.

Mac seemed no better: he greeted her with a nervous smile, showed her into the living room and offered her a coffee, after which he spent some twenty minutes in the kitchen alone: steeling himself for the experience, Stella assumed. She wished she had the guts to go to him – she would have put her arms around him and told him it was all going to be OK and he would have turned to her and held her close – but she didn't, so they remained in their separate rooms until Mac came in and said that he supposed they ought to… Well, do something… Before they lost their nerve.

It was not as she had imagined. And she had imagined it, often: but she had pictured them dressed in flowing romantic clothing atop the Empire State Building, or – in darker, more exciting dreams – ripping off their day clothes and spreading themselves frantically across Mac's desk, sweeping its contents to the floor in a rage of uncontrollable passion and reaching for the skies in ecstatic abandonment. She shivered: she had waited so long for this, and now it seemed – she had to admit it – a non-event.

After the coffee, they had made their way reluctantly to Mac's bedroom, where Stella could smell the clean – no, the _new_ – sheets he had lain on the bed. That was considerate, she thought, though in her fantasies it hadn't mattered.

"I – I don't quite know how you want to handle this, Stella," Mac had said, and she'd heard the tension in his voice. A sensible woman would have realised that neither was in the mood, and that the best thing would be to adjourn to the living room for beer and a laugh, after which events might have unfolded quite differently: but Stella, faced with the prospect of sleeping with Mac for the first time, was not inclined to be sensible.

The outcome was not good. Mac was so nervous he couldn't stop shaking, and Stella suddenly found she didn't want the lights on. Mac tried to accomplish his task while touching Stella as little as possible, and it was only after an hour of tentative and failed fumblings that both came to their senses and gave the whole evening up as a bad job.

Stella was almost crying, though she did find it in her heart to consider that Mac must be feeling pretty awful too: it could hardly be what he had anticipated when they embarked on this crazy scheme. Perhaps, she thought when safely back in her own apartment and wrapped up in her empty bed, they should have gone with the syringe after all.

* * *

Next day, she was relieved to see that Mac seemed completely unfazed by the experience. "Stella?" he said brightly as she walked into the lab, "how are you feeling?"

She looked him in the eye. "Frankly? Rather foolish." He smiled, and she found herself wishing she'd been able to do something to make it work. "Look," she rushed on, keeping her voice low but determined to speak before discretion got the better of her, "if you want to give this whole thing up, that's fine, I don't mind. Not that I don't think it's good idea – still – but if it's not going to work…"

"Hmm." He sounded rather grim. "I didn't go through all that last night just to give up at the first hurdle. Did you?"

"I'm – I'm sorry. I just don't think I did very well."

He moved nearer to her. "You know what they say," he whispered, "about the first time usually being – less than perfect. But," raising his voice again, "if at first you don't succeed…"

They had been walking through the lab and had now arrived at Mac's office, and Stella began to breathe a little more freely. "I just – I just don't want to let you down," she mumbled, not looking at him.

"Stella!" She looked up. "I think I was the one… Adam! What can I do for you?"

"Er – I can come back. I can easily come back," stammered the lab tech, obviously aware that he had stumbled in on a private conversation.

"No, that's fine," Stella said breezily. "We'll get back to this, Mac – yes? Say in a couple of days?"

He nodded, and she left, feeling his eyes on her.

* * *

Later, she suddenly began to grin uncontrollably. Indeed, she even began to giggle, and so loudly that Lindsay looked across at her, somewhat bemused.

"Stella?"

"Oh – something funny last night," she said. "Nothing – it's OK."

Lindsay went back to work, but Stella continued to stare at her bench with a very silly smile on her face. She couldn't help it: and the more she thought, the more she grinned. She was profoundly grateful that no-one could read her mind: apart from being deeply embarrassing, no-one would have believed her.

The light had been dim in Mac's apartment, but not that dim.

_I've seen Mac Taylor naked…_

* * *

_To be continued in Chapter 3_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – December 2009

As the weeks passed, Stella and Mac settled into a sort of rhythm, meeting once every week or ten days to further their 'project', and generally getting better at it every time: there was no more talk of syringes.

It was a crisp, chill day in December when things began to fall apart, and the fact that Stella was tired and not thinking clearly did nothing to lessen her anguish.

Alone in her apartment, longing for Mac's touch and yet feeling that she shouldn't be, she found herself in a very strange place. As the weeks had progressed, the idea of a child had grown in her mind until it became overwhelmingly important. What had started off as an itch to be scratched – a gift for Mac – had become something like an addiction: and every time it became obvious that, yet again, they hadn't succeeded, she became irritable and – to her shame – slightly tearful. This was not what she'd intended: and she realised too late that she hadn't taken the emotional burden of what they were doing sufficiently into account.

These must have been the thoughts that had troubled Mac during his marriage to Claire, that had delayed his decision to try fatherhood for so long: she understood his diffidence and fear now as she had never done before. Was she ready, she wondered, to be a parent? Was she good enough to be the mother of Mac's child? Did she deserve to be Mac's lover at all?

The thought stopped her in her tracks. Was that what they were – lovers? Just because they slept together… There was deep affection and friendship on both sides, and she'd always assumed that she loved him: but did she really? She certainly lusted after him – but love? The word was terrifying: it carried so much weight that she thought she might sink under it if she let it run free.

If anyone had asked her a year ago, she'd have said she'd done with love: Frankie had said he loved her, and she thought she'd loved him, and they'd ended up trying to kill each other. She knew that if she told Mac tomorrow the deal was off he would accept the fact at once, but some of the old irrational fear remained: what if Mac wasn't reasonable, but reacted as Frankie had done? The thought was crazy, but but but… She wasn't going to lay herself open to such danger again.

And yet hadn't she done just that, last September, by agreeing to what most people would think was a lunatic idea? It had seemed so sensible at the time…

She'd always cared for Mac, that couldn't be denied. If he had approached her before Frankie, she would have – what, she wondered, would she have done? For perhaps the first time, she tried to look the question squarely in the face, and found it incredibly hard. Her mind kept wanting to sheer off at odd angles, to cloud the issue with other considerations. But she persisted, and finally came to a not entirely pleasant conclusion: that, if Mac had shown any romantic interest in her at all, she would have run a mile.

Why? Why?

Could it be, she wondered with growing panic, that she'd been right in her casual assessment: that she'd loved him all along? She rejected the idea as ludicrous. She'd known him for over fifteen years: surely she'd have noticed sooner if she'd been in love? No marks for observation or self-knowledge there… Yet the more she thought about it – and the more calmly she thought about it – the more reasonable the idea became.

Suddenly, Stella was frightened. She had wasted so many years – and now was in the position of sleeping with someone she loved but who didn't love her – and once their joint goal was accomplished, what then? She had never really thought beyond this point, but now she could see that this was, surely, the craziest thing she had ever done. And if Mac ever found out…

If Mac ever found out, he would know that she had just been using him, not to have a child, which seemed an impossible task anyway, but for a cheap thrill without any emotional risk – a quick fling after which she could ditch him any time she liked because, of course, it was only to conceive a child. Not for any other reason.

Not for any other reason at all.

Her head sunk into her hands. Oh God… What had she done? And what should she do now?

She stared out at the New York snow as it drifted past her window, cool and insensible of her unhappiness. The white flakes merged as her eyes filled with hot, panicked tears: if she didn't tell Mac she loved him, could she go on with this charade? But if she did, would she lose him?

With sudden clarity, she looked into the future she had unconsciously planned, and saw the two of them: her and Mac, with children and a home and happiness and all the things that Danny and Lindsay had striven for. And then she took another look, and saw herself alone, rejected by the man she loved because of her dishonesty, unable to love anyone else because no-one else was half the man he was, anticipating an old age without love or friendship, as brittle and dry as crisp, dead leaves.

She curled up in her misery and, exhausted from the burden of this sudden, unrequited emotion, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

"What you doing for New Year's, Stell?" Don Flack's voice at her side made her jump: she had been deeply involved in teasing out a recalcitrant piece of plastic from its twisted housing, and hadn't heard him approach.

"Oh, the usual, you know. Hook up with girlfriends, shout a lot, drink a lot, find some men to take home."

"Wow," Flack said, with proper appreciation. "And exactly where will you and these accommodating ladies be at midnight?"

Stella laughed. She had no plans as yet: they usually materialised in the final hours of the year, with a lot of last minute phone calls and giggling – though strangely for parties that were completely off the cuff, everyone always seemed to have astonishingly well-planned outfits. Hers – which she'd been nursing in her closet since June – was a vintage black and silver feathery thing, a little bit 20s, a little bit 80s: its weird mixture of flapper elegance and 'lost decade' crassness had caught her eye the first time she saw it, and she hadn't been able to rest until she'd made it her own. A nip here and a tuck there, a pair of even higher heels than usual, and she was ready for any surprise New Year's Eve party. When she opened her coat and her date saw what lay underneath…

Of course, that was before the christening, and Mac's question, and their strange, secret agreement. Now, how would she feel about – ugh! She grimaced. The thought of anyone but Mac in her bed…

"Hey!" Flack said, bringing her back to reality. "The boys and me – we're not that bad! We only plan to roam the streets looking for defenceless groups of drunken young women to have our wicked way with – save us both a lot of time and trouble if we arranged where to meet up beforehand."

"Get outta here. So, what're you doing really?"

"Oh, I don't know. Samantha – depending on how she feels. Jess' folks have invited me over." He paused. "I might go there."

Stella remembered that this was Flack's first Christmas alone, and her heart went out to him. Trying to make light of things, she grinned wryly. "Tell you what," she said, "you can be an honorary girl if you want. Come with us and cruise."

Flack spluttered into his coffee. "Er – thanks, Stell. Might give that one a miss."

She moved closer to him, and placed a hand on his arm. "Serious offer, Don."

He smiled slightly, and she knew he understood. "Thanks. I'll be OK." He grinned wickedly. "Enjoy your men."

Stella carefully avoided looking in the direction of Mac's office. There was only one man she wanted to enjoy. What was it they said – 'once you've had the best you spurn the rest'? Well, Mac was – undoubtedly – the best, and he had comprehensively spoilt her for anyone else.

But would she have it any other way? Despite the secrecy, the strangeness, the lack of love, the answer was always 'no'. Imperfect as their arrangement was, half a relationship with Mac was better than a full relationship with anyone else. She couldn't deny it. She'd dug this uncomfortable, jagged hole for herself and, even as she strained to escape the pain of not being loved as she wished, she knew there was nowhere she would rather be.

* * *

Times Square: the only happening place on New Year's Eve. Stella had been here last December, carousing with friends and staring wide-eyed at the crystal ball like any other kid: this year, she had refused two invitations in the secret hope that she and Mac would celebrate the turn of the year together, but by ten o'clock it had become obvious that, whatever he might be doing to bring in the New Year, he was not doing it with her.

Clearly, their arrangement did not include being together for the simple pleasure of each other's company, she thought dourly.

The Christmas rush at the lab had been as expected: the usual rash of domestic abuse, suicide and thefts had been enough to keep everyone busy, and this morning had brought a particularly harrowing case of a father who appeared to have shot his two daughters – both under ten and both suffering from cystic fibrosis – before turning the gun on his wife and then trying to turn it on himself. He had killed the girls: his wife was in a coma; and he had only been prevented from bleeding to death by the quick – and perhaps misplaced – actions of a neighbour.

It was a horrible way to end the year, and Mac had drawn the short straw of processing the scene and signing off the paperwork before the midnight hour. She had volunteered to help, but he had been adamant: she was to take herself home, put on her glad rags, and enjoy a night on the town. Indeed, her protestations and refusals had been met with such irritation that eventually she had given up and left.

And so here she was, alone with thousands of other people, nearly two bottles of wine mellowing inside her, as miserable and as frozen as she could ever remember.

What a way to start the year.

She could send a text, she thought – less intrusive than a call, and he could ignore it if he was busy. But she knew him: he wouldn't ignore it. He would answer in that patient, terse voice, giving her all the time she needed but making her feel that she was getting in the way, and when the call ended she would almost be able to sense his relief. She snorted. And this was the man she was trying to have a child with?

Someone bumped into her, and the contact broke her train of thought. When she had regained her equilibrium, it occurred to her that she was being unfair: he had obviously assumed that she had a party to go to – and she hadn't asked him to join her here, had she? She could hardly condemn him for behaviour which mirrored her own.

She wondered if he'd overheard her conversation with Flack. It had been flippant – apart from its ending – but he could have taken it seriously. He could be sitting there right now, wanting to be with her but imagining her with a string of new-year-men, laughing and having fun and – and not being with him. The thought hurt.

Perhaps she should text him…

She fumbled with her cell: gloves and alcohol did not make for manual dexterity. She was aware that her over-enthusiasm for the heavy Chilean red was beginning to tell: she must make sure she didn't say anything silly. Being drunk was how all this had started.

When the phone buzzed in her hands, she nearly dropped it in surprise.

_Stella – how's the party?_ Mac had sent her a text…

Fuzzy in the cold, she hurried to reply. _gr8 wr r u_

_I've left the lab. Happy New Year._

No – no! She mustn't lose him now… _meet u tms sq?_

_I don't do parties, Stella. You have fun._ She stared at the screen: who else texted as if they were writing a report?

_plz_

_?_

She sighed in exasperation. _plse cm 2 tms squ!_

There was a pause, then: _Where exactly are you?_

She looked around: the crowds were constantly shifting, moving without her really noticing. She was near to the edge of the throng.

_Meet you at 45th and 8th,_ she texted, grimly punching the words out in full: she began to drift away from the centre of things, against the prevailing human tide. She was desperate to be with him. Surely he would understand?

The crowds were thicker now: it was only about ten minutes before the brand new year, with all its hopes and dreams and same old problems, crashed across the city in an explosion of neon and light, heat and colour. All she wanted was for Mac to be there when it did. She would put her arms around him and he would fold her up in his and she would be warm and loved and safe.

Mmm. Being slightly drunk did give one a nice perspective on the world…

_How many of you?_ his reply came back.

Now she was getting annoyed: she knew his dislike of strangers, although he'd told her tales of parties in his youth that should have made her hair curl. Couldn't he make the effort for her, even if he thought she was with friends? Tears pricking at her eyes, she stuffed her cell back in her pocket and shouldered her way to the edge of the crowd. Why should she wait for him: why should she even think about him? Why should she take part in any of this at all? She growled at a figure standing in her way: suddenly, she didn't feel sociable.

Someone grabbed her by the arm, and she shook herself free. "Hey!" a voice said, and her arm was taken again. She spun round, angry with Mac for not being there, angry with herself for wanting him to be, and angry with this impudent stranger who wouldn't leave her alone.

"Sod off!" she hissed, wrenching her arm out of the unknown grasp. "I'm not in the mood!"

Her assailant was right next to her now. "I'll go home alone then, shall I?" The voice was soft, yet clearly audible among all the noise, and instantly recognisable. It also held an unmistakeable thread of humour.

"Mac? But you said – how did you get here… Where were you?"

He pointed to a spot very close to where they now stood. "Just there. I couldn't see you but I must have been only a few feet away."

All the lights in the world came back on in her head. She looked at him: wrapped up against the winter but with his head uncovered, he was everything she had ever wanted. And tonight, increasingly reckless and suddenly happy, she found that she didn't care who knew it.

"Mac…" She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. The material was chill, but soft and welcoming. She slid her arms under his coat and felt the rich, human heat of his solid chest and back. Without hesitating, his arms encircled her, and she felt like a 1950s movie star who, after trials and tribulations previously unknown to womankind, gets her man in the final scene before the credits. _How ridiculous_, she thought. _How blissfully ridiculous_.

She heard him speaking into her hair. "Where's this party, then?"

She raised her face to his. "Right here. You want anyone else?"

If he was surprised, he didn't show it – or she didn't see it. "No." His voice was soft, and he smoothed down her hair where the wind had caught it. "You were here on your own? I thought – I heard you offer to keep Don company. That was kind."

She didn't answer: wasn't it obvious that if she couldn't be with him then she wouldn't be with anyone? She shook her head, feeling very fuzzy now. "Mmm."

"Stella – are you OK?"

There was the same old Mac, always fussing… "Course. I – er – had some wine before I came out."

"Ah. So are you a responsible individual right now?"

She grinned. "Probably not."

She saw a glint in his eye. "Good."

They stood in silence for a few minutes. Stella felt that Mac's last remark was significant, but she wasn't quite sure how. She felt deeply content: she knew the alcohol had lowered her resistance to self-indulgent emotions, but she was enjoying them too much to turn and walk away. How nice it was to be all squishy inside… She burrowed into him more tightly, and felt his answering pressure.

_God,_ she thought, _I can't_ _imagine anything more perfect._

Then the square exploded in noise and light: fireworks lit up the velvet sky and an unimaginable cheer rose from the mass of people around. The countdown must have been going on, but she had been unaware of it: she had been so completely wrapped up in Mac that nothing else seemed real. It was as though she was surrounded by a golden glow, insulated from real life and all its unpleasantness by the arms of this wonderful, unique man.

A small part of her knew this was all romantic rubbish: but she wasn't listening to that small part tonight.

She looked at Mac: she wanted him to be the first thing she saw as the new year dawned. The impossibly bright colours reflected off his upturned face, constantly shifting, bathing him in a surreal rainbow. She wanted to kiss him: she wanted the first conscious thing she did as the new year dawned to be to kiss him. And why not?

She reached up and turned him towards her, catching some of the wonder in his eyes, and realised that the child still lived within the man, however well he tried to hide it. She pulled him to her, touched her lips to his, then sank into him, pouring herself out without thought for decorum or tomorrow, opening herself as he responded with fierce, surprised passion. They shared each other as they had never done through all the strange encounters of the last few months. Those had been to achieve a purpose: this was for themselves alone, and the difference was electric.

As she felt a fire too long controlled burst free, Stella realised that, incredibly, this was the first time they had kissed in this way: they had been tender and intense, but never passionate. They had concentrated so hard on getting everything right that they had forgotten the most important thing: love. Not any more, she thought – not any more.

He held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe through the kiss, but she would not stop: she never wanted to break this glorious, cleansing contact. She was acutely, intimately aware of his entire body against hers in all its changing, responsive contours, and drank him in as if he were the last drop of water on earth: she wanted to mingle their separate bodies until they were one and she would never have to be without him again.

As the bright, liquid sensations swept through her, she became aware of another astonishing fact: that he seemed just as thirsty for this as she was. He seemed relentless, uncontrollable – violent and almost alien. She had never seen him like this – never imagined him like this. He was normally so reserved, so 'proper' – where was all this fire coming from? Then she recalled occasions on which fury or terror had broken through the mask: and where those emotions hid, there was surely also room for passion and love?

Finally, of course, it had to stop. Satiated, giddy and overflowing with each other, they drew apart and slowly became aware of the city around them again. To Stella, it felt as if she had left behind a universe of colour and stepped into a world of black and white. As her eyes and mind adjusted and reality came back into focus, she felt again the sidewalk press up against her feet; the chill of the air on her face; the jostle of the crowd around them.

Mac's eyes were eerily dark: they held no colour at all, but seemed deeper than the night itself in their blackness. She spoke no words: none were adequate. It was almost as if they no longer needed them: their souls were joined, and the connection between them was now at quite a different level from that of ordinary people. So, when he loosed himself from her grasp and gently tugged her in the direction of downtown and the sanctuary of his apartment, she understood immediately, and walked softly with him towards the new morning in a wonderful, fire-drenched dream.

* * *

_To be continued in Chapter 4_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – February/March 2010

**A/N:** I have made assumptions about what happened to Danny in the months following 5.25: please forgive me if I've got them wrong! Also, thank you, everyone, for your reviews – there have been so many that I haven't been able to answer them all personally, which I normally like to do. Every single one of them is very much appreciated.

* * *

Stella was shouting. She didn't care that they were in the parking lot below Danny and Lindsay's apartment block and that, if their hosts had followed them down, they would have heard every word of their argument. She didn't care that Mac's face was grey with pain and distress.

"Stella – please!" He reached a hand towards her, and she saw the chill that swept across him when she pulled away.

"I said no!" She fought to control her breathing, trying not to cry – she was angry and hurt, but she did not want to cry. She couldn't bear this any more – enough was enough and she'd had a lot more than enough. "Don't touch me!" She didn't care if she was hurting him – her own pain was all-consuming, and she had no room for any agony of his.

Gasping, she slowly calmed down, still keeping her hand outstretched against Mac's concern: he stood less than four feet away from her, but the gulf between them was unbridgeable.

Which was exactly what she wanted.

* * *

They had spent the evening with the Messers, laughing and chatting and playing with Lucy: Danny's health had come under scrutiny, and Stella had been moved by his bravery. And bravado – it took a special kind of person to cope with what he had experienced, and only someone with his cheek and chutzpah could have made it through untainted by anger or bitterness. He had been angry at first – furiously, insanely angry – but his responsibilities as a father, husband and friend had steadied him in ways that Stella had hardly believed possible. He had learnt how to put himself last, and had become a richer and – ironically – a happier person because of it.

She and Mac had revelled in each other's company. Their relationship had matured since the new year and, while not the expression of 'true love' that Stella still yearned for, was tender, exciting and intellectually fulfilling: Mac was good in bed, but he was also fun to read the Sunday papers with. Short of him saying those three magic words – and meaning them in the way she wanted – life was perfect.

Lindsay knew: Stella was convinced that Lindsay knew. She saw the younger woman watching them occasionally, a slightly wry smile on her face that didn't entirely disappear when she caught Stella's eye. But Mac had wanted to play things close, to keep things to themselves for as long as possible, and she respected his desire for privacy: he had told her about Peyton's need for public acknowledgement, and she'd had a hard time keeping the distaste off her face. When you had the love – the almost-love – of the most wonderful man in the world, what need was there for anything more?

When Lindsay and Danny went into the kitchen to make coffee – and to give her and Mac, Stella thought, a few moments alone – they had touched fingers, and the charge between them was so erotic that Stella though the sofa might catch fire. She felt like a flower in the sun: warm and open and about to burst with happiness. She loved Mac – loved him so much… Romantic heroines – Jane Eyre, Lizzie Bennett, Scarlett O'Hara – what did they know! She loved him with every atom of her being – hell, she loved him with the spaces between the atoms! She had to tell him – had to share this overwhelming joy – had to whisper that he was everything to her, and without him life would be unbearable. She even opened her mouth – was aware of the words travelling from her brain to her lips – had begun to form them in a daring rush – before common sense asserted itself and she said something else entirely.

But, she had promised herself, she would tell him that night, when they were alone and he could respond freely and without constraint. She stroked his face, a feather-touch to tell him what he was to her, but dropped her hand as Lindsay returned. Mac hid his grin, and they drank their coffee in delicious conspiracy.

Then, at the evening's end, she went to the bathroom and emerged a different woman: another month, another failure.

Her heightened emotions had made her particularly susceptible, perhaps, to the disappointment. She hadn't been drinking – she'd given up alcohol, much to the astonishment of her colleagues, after New Year – but she felt dizzy, uncoordinated.

And outraged.

Mac saw it at once, and knew its cause. She saw the concern in his eyes, the quick glance at their hosts to see if they'd noticed, the anxiety to leave – and, irrationally, hated him for it. What right did he have to know her so well? What right did he have to put her through this, just for his own immediate and future desires?

She knew she wasn't being intelligent or sensible, but she didn't care. Yet another month of hoping, planning – yet another dashing of those green and delicate dreams, withering in the harshness of the rich red sun. She was drained, alone, unsupported and wretched, and she couldn't do this any more. The fact that the cause of her anguish would also be – if she let him – her greatest support, was utterly irrelevant.

* * *

"It's over, Mac." Even to her crazy ears, the words were hackneyed. But who cared? Not her… "I've had enough. Every month's a roller-coaster, never knowing what's going to happen, never knowing where we'll be four weeks from now – the anticipation, the let-downs – I can't deal with it any more. It's destroying me! Can't you see, it's destroying me!"

"But – "

"No – I tried, OK? I really tried – I wanted to do this for you, Mac. I never imagined – " she drew a breath " – I never realised what it would mean. What it would cost. It's different for you – it's my body, my damage – it's over."

After a slight pause, Mac spoke carefully: she heard the quiet tension in his voice. "What's over, Stella?"

"Us! This! I'm not good enough."

"Stella, that's not – "

"Enough, Mac! That's it – OK? I'm not doing it any more. It's not worth it – it really isn't worth it." She was close to tears now, but determined to remain dry-eyed: if she showed any weakness he would take her in his arms and comfort her and – and… She wanted so much to be loved! Wanted so much to make this work! But she couldn't take the constant pain of disappointment: she had to think of herself.

He looked lost, like a drowning man about to lose his grip on the last piece of a shipwreck. "I still – we don't have to – I need you, Stella." It was whispered: she hardly heard him.

But she hardened her heart: he could find someone else. "No," she said flatly. "You don't."

"But," he stammered. She'd never heard him stammer before. "But – still friends, right? We'll always be friends, Stella, yes?"

"Yeah – so? I need the space, I can't handle any more crowding!"

She thought she heard a whimper, but didn't care. He'd get over it.

* * *

A month later, Stella was in the lab clearing batches of paperwork – Mac was in his office doing, as far as she knew, the same. It was the end of the financial year, and everyone was trying to tie up loose ends.

It was days – weeks – since they'd spoken: Mac had been keeping her at a distance, and she had made no effort to bridge the widening gap he had put between them.

She knew, of course. It didn't take a rocket – or a forensic – scientist to work out why: during their last genuine conversation, she had effectively told him their whole relationship was over. She'd seen his face crumble at her words, but her own pain had been so overwhelming that she simply hadn't had room to think of his.

Since then she had worked through her disappointment – alone, as was necessary – and accepted that, inevitably, it went with the territory. There were enormous questions to be faced that she had previously succeeded in avoiding: questions of her love for Mac, her desire for a child, the importance of her job, her need for companionship. The last had given her most trouble. She had always thought of herself as a loner, wanting others but needing no-one; but this 'loss' of Mac – his body, his affection and his company – had coloured every area of her life, and it had taken her weeks to acknowledge that, at last, she actually needed him.

She needed Mac: the revelation was devastating. That she loved him she knew – that had been astonishing at first, but she was used to the idea now. She wanted him – oh God, how she wanted him! Over the past months her body had developed a craving for his: for his kiss, his touch, his passion. She felt empty without him: she thought of his strong, hard physicality against her, inside her, enveloping her, and the want was a bodily ache that nothing could wash away.

Bu that she _needed _him: that was different. That meant she was no longer self-sufficient, no longer a proud, isolated island. Someone had built a bridge into her heart, and she had welcomed the invasion as if her life depended on it. And now, it did. And the irony was that, just as she was beginning to realise the extent of her commitment to the man with whom she had spent such a crazy, wonderful year, he finally gave up and began to move away.

Immediately after her outburst he had withdrawn a little, but made it clear that he was still there for her. A touch on the arm, a smile in the hallway, help in the small hours with a particularly tricky task: he had made himself available and she had been grateful. But she had never reached out for anything more: looking back, she realised that she had used him as a safety net as she worked through her own troubles, that knowing he was always there had enabled her to face and answer some of the hardest questions of her life. But, having found her way again, by the time she was ready to take his hand, he had given up and withdrawn completely, rebuilding the impenetrable shell that he had constructed after 9/11 and which it had taken him so long to allow anyone to break down.

He was pleasant, friendly, professional and courteous: and she had never felt so alone.

Perhaps he thought she had meant those harsh words; perhaps he thought she no longer needed him; perhaps he thought she no longer loved him. The thought made her gasp in pain: the man she loved thought she was indifferent, and seemed to have no desire for a relationship that had become life and death to her. If she couldn't have him – if she couldn't spend her life loving him, being with him – she caught a glimpse, for the first time, of how people arrive at a place where life becomes intolerable, and was terrified.

Walking swiftly to the bathroom, she leant against the cool tiles. What was happening to her? Where was the strong Stella she had spent her whole life creating? Where was the powerful woman she had always been, even in the ghastly hours of Frankie, the awful days of Greece? Where was she – where was she now, lost, alone and afraid in the dark?

She knew: she was wrapped up in Mac's heart, and he had locked his heart up, and her with it, because the pain it gave him was too great to bear. The true horror was that she had made him do it: if she had given him even a shade of hope, she knew he would have kept that door open. Now it was closed, and she had no idea how to get in. She was in a hot, beating desert, and the only water was beyond her reach.

And without that water, she would die.

She cried out, losing control just for a moment, her agony was so great. Then, horribly, she became aware of someone with her: for a ludicrous moment she thought it might be Mac, but this was a women's bathroom, and the shape resolved itself into Lindsay.

Concerned, affectionate and bloody infuriating Lindsay, whose arms were suddenly round her – how surreal was that? – and on whose shoulder Stella sobbed out her incoherent pain until she had no more words or thoughts or anything at all.

Straightening, she looked her in the eye. _If she asks me if I'm OK, I'll hit her…_

But she didn't: instead, Lindsay handed her a drink and simply held her hand. She pushed a strand of hair away from Stella's face in a gesture so redolent of Mac that she began to say his name: and then the agony washed over her again, and the word died on her lips.

She shook her head. "Lindsay… Please – don't tell anyone. Don't – tell Mac." Her voice was a whisper. "Just – got to move on. Just – got to leave…" Her breathing became ragged. "How do people do it?" she suddenly broke out. "How do people cope with – loving someone? It's impossible!" She stood up and began to pace the floor. "How do you do it, Lindsay? How do you and Danny do it without tearing yourselves apart?"

Lindsay was quiet for long enough for Stella to calm herself, and by the time she began to answer, she wasn't really interested any more. But she heard, nonetheless. "We listen to each other. We try not to let pride get in the way. We try to imagine what we look like from the other side of the room. We – we try not to be afraid."

"Afraid? You and Danny?"

Lindsay smiled. "Loving someone isn't so hard, Stella. It's letting yourself be loved that's difficult. You've got to be unbearably open: it's not called wearing your heart on your sleeve for nothing." She glanced down at her arm. "I got a lot of bloody shirts learning to be with Danny. Still get one occasionally. You and Mac – "

"I didn't say it was Mac!"

"No, you didn't. But you guys… Come on, Stella, everyone wants you two to be happy."

"I didn't say…" Stella repeated.

"You have to learn to be vulnerable. Both of – you're the sort of people who need to be in control, and sometimes that can make you appear, well, closed. You need to show a weakness – even make a mistake. Ask for help. Do something which shows you're not completely self-sufficient."

Stella frowned. "But – people don't respect weakness, Lindsay – they respect strength. If I show weakness, I'll lose his respect. I'll lose my authority."

"Well," Lindsay said blandly, "if the 'person in question' is understanding, and can separate work and leisure… Then he's quite capable of distinguishing capable, competent working Stella from vulnerable, loving personal Stella. Don't you think? And trusting you to behave appropriately?"

Stella stared at her. When had Lindsay got philosophy – and psychology? Did she really imagine that Stella letting her guard down was going to bring Mac running to her side? He was the sort who needed a strong woman, not some squealing weakling.

And yet… If Mac needed to be protective and she didn't need protecting, wasn't she denying him something? Or was that the age-old argument of women becoming what men wanted simply to get love and keep them happy? Where did gentleness end and compromise begin?

She didn't want Mac to protect her – she didn't want to be beholden – and it came to her suddenly that _she_ wanted to protect _him_. She was strong, powerful, a figure of authority and control: but did she really want him to be weak and yielding so she could feel good at his expense? She realised that protecting someone was a lot more complicated than she'd thought. She wanted to shelter Mac, to hold him against pain and terror and unhappiness: but that was because she loved him, not because he was weak. It didn't diminish him in her eyes that she needed to care for him.

So why should it diminish her in his?

She buried her face in her hands. "Oh hell…"

"You could just go out there and tell him," Lindsay said.

Stella gave up the pretence that they weren't talking about Mac. "What – " her voice cracked slightly. "What if he said no?"

"Doesn't mean you give up! Isn't he worth more than one try?"

"I can't do this, Lindsay – I can't dance around like this."

"Then – look, what have you got to lose? And what have you got to gain? And how the hell did you guys get together in the first place and why can't you do that again?"

"We got drunk," Stella whispered. "It was an accident."

"Then have another accident! Spike his coffee! Sit in his lap! Spill his coffee in his lap and then sit in it!"

"Lindsay!"

"Well do something! The longer you leave it the more he'll think you don't want him and the higher those defences will go. You've known him longer than anyone – you know it, Stell!"

She knew.

* * *

She did nothing that afternoon: her mind was too full of new thoughts and notions and daydreams of protecting Mac from real and imagined monsters to figure out a plan. But the following morning she saw Lindsay's exasperated expression and knew she had to act. Lindsay in nag mode was not something to be encouraged.

Her chance came when she had to collect an evidence box from central storage. It was old – there was some re-testing and cold-case matching she wanted to do – and the handles were none too reliable, so she had to carry it in her arms. It was also a bulky, non-standard size and, as she climbed the steps up to the lab, she stumbled slightly and swore: fortunately, neither she nor the box hit the floor.

"You all right, Stella?" Mac's voice leapt out of nothingness at her elbow.

She jumped. "Oh – er – yeah – just tripped, that's all. Fine, thanks."

"Need any help?"

"No – no, it's fine. Just a bit awkward."

"OK." He turned away, and Stella suddenly realised that this was exactly the opportunity she'd been waiting for. The box was large and heavy: she was perfectly capable of carrying it, but Mac had offered to help, and perhaps this was a safe way of being vulnerable without calling her scientific expertise into question. Still, it went against the grain… She gritted her teeth, and called him back.

"Um – actually – could you – would you mind? It's these old boxes…"

The smile on his face – instant and immediately veiled – was worth every cent of embarrassment she might be feeling. Hell, it was worth a thousand dollars of embarrassment. Stella began to glow.

Mac took the box from her: their fingers touched, and the sensation went through her like fire. Involuntarily, she raised her eyes to his, and she saw him colour slightly.

Her heart somersaulted in her chest: he felt the same: he must feel the same! If he didn't, he wouldn't have blushed – it wouldn't have meant anything to him. He still loved her, still wanted her after everything – oh God, he still needed her like she needed him! He must do – he must do… Please, let it be love and not embarrassment – let it be shyness and not disdain. As they walked to her office, she placed a casual hand on his back, as she had so often done before: she felt him react to the touch, but no-one in the lab turned a hair. She moved her hand, very slightly, up and down the soft material of his jacket. Did he feel it? Did he want it?

Did he love her?

"There." He placed the box carefully on her desk, standing back to give her room to examine it. Instead, she turned to him – as anyone might after being helped – and smiled. "Thanks, Mac." He was facing away from the door – there was scarcely six inches between them – no-one could see that electric space. Quickly, she reached out a hand and traced her finger down one of his. It was a tiny gesture, over in a second: a passer-by might have mistaken it for a friendly pat, as one would give a dog or cat.

Mac did not: he drew his breath in sharply, and looked at her with anxious, expectant eyes. "Stella," he said softly.

She had to say something – something not too emotional but that he couldn't fail to understand. She searched her heart: what could she say that would tell him how she felt – tell him she was sorry – without saying the words?

"I miss you," she whispered, hardly daring to look up at him. "I miss you, Mac."

"Do you?"

"There you are!" All unaware, Sheldon Hawkes entered the room, eyes fixed on the report in his hands. He thus failed to see the guilty expressions that crossed his listeners' faces, and they were able to recover themselves before he continued. "Mac, you wanted to see this – the results on… Hey, I'm sorry – were you two in the middle of something?"

"No – no," Stella replied, confident, careless smile firmly in place. "Mac was just helping me with that box." She turned to Mac. "Thanks!"

"No problem," he said smoothly, for all the world as if nothing had happened. "Hawkes – let's have a look at this…"

The two men left, examining the file before them. As they turned into the hallway, Mac looked back, and met Stella's eyes for an instant. Then he was gone.

* * *

_To be continued in chapter 5_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – April 2010

"Mac – we need to talk."

It was almost ten-thirty in the evening and she was tired, but she had to speak to him. Her conversation with Lindsay had resulted in some hard and painful soul-searching: confronting yourself is never a pleasant experience, and she realised, with something like shame, that she had treated the man she loved appallingly badly. He had offered her his life – his future – and, because it hadn't worked out as she wanted within a few months, she had thrown it all back in his face.

It was time to be honest, and take the consequences.

His reply had not been entirely what she'd expected: "Yes, we do," had a faintly sinister ring. Well, she could hardly blame him: last time they'd spoken personally, she'd trodden all over his hopes and dreams, and she'd given him no reason to think she'd changed her mind. Perhaps she should have said something…

No, she didn't want him prepared: that all-too-efficient defensive wall had to be breached suddenly, at a rush, if she was to reach the gentle, loving man within.

"Let's go sit in Central Park," Mac said suddenly. "I could do with some air."

They walked the dozen or so blocks from the lab in silence: once, Stella went to take his hand – recklessly, perhaps – but he moved away, and she did not try again. She almost cried inside: she must have hurt him very deeply. She longed for the chance to put things right: he had given her so much space and kindness, and she had – so far – repaid him with silence and rejection.

Now, she would show him what a woman in love could really do.

They reached the park, and walked through it until they found a tiny, secluded clearing: it was obviously a place Mac knew, for they had to push their way through several bushes and a group of defiant young saplings to reach it. Stella was glad Mac was with her: it wasn't the sort of place anyone would sensibly come to alone. As a romantic glade, however, it was without equal: trees leaned down tenderly on each side, while a gentle breeze whispered sweet nothings through the branches, and the soft glow from the far-off city lamps made a dappled grotto of light and dark around them. She felt as if she was in fairyland.

Sitting down on a huge moss-covered tree stump, they were quite hidden from any path: a stranger could have walked within ten feet of them and not known they were there.

"Stella…" Mac paused, and Stella suddenly had the crazy idea that he was going to ask her to marry him. She felt overwhelmed: whatever should she say to such a request? A thousand images tumbled through her mind, none answering her frantic question. Wanting to touch him at such an important moment – whatever she said in reply – she reached out again for his hand, taking it firmly and holding it tight. This time he didn't pull away, but returned the pressure, caressing her with his thumb just as he'd done on the flight back from Bozeman seven months before. Her heart beat fast, and she sat very still.

But he didn't speak: the silence stretched between them and she wondered if she ought to break it. Finally, she could bear the tension no longer. "I – I wanted to tell you something, Mac."

"Yeah – I wanted to talk to you too." He looked up and smiled, but it was a strange, uncertain smile. "Who first?"

Stella began to tremble. She had to say her piece now, before she lost courage, though sitting here with her hand in Mac's, she felt she could have taken on the world. Why should talking to the man she loved be so difficult?

"Me," she said. "Me, or I'll never say it. Don't interrupt me, Mac – let me finish. I – this is going to be really hard for me to say, and if you speak…"

"Stella – "

"What did I just say?"

"If you're going to say it's all over – that you've taken the time and can't bear the thought of trying again…"

"What?"

"It's OK. Stella – it's OK." His breathing was quite ragged now – he seemed on the edge of losing control, and she was utterly confused. Where the hell had this come from?

She felt cold, and not because of the chill April night. "I think you'd better go first," she whispered.

"All I was going to say was that – I understand why you said 'no'. I imposed a desire on you that wasn't yours – and you – agreed to it. How many other women would have done that? And you stuck with it, caring for me and holding me up and pretending to love me, and – "

"I didn't pretend!"

He smiled sadly. "I heard you, Stella. One night, you said 'I love you' and for a moment I thought it was all real."

"No – Mac, I didn't. I never would have…"

"I know. I just – just for that moment, I thought…"

"No, I mean I never would have because – "

"I know – I know. It's all right. If I wanted you to I should have said so. I didn't, so it's OK." He paused, but Stella was too astonished to respond. Then he continued. "I never thought about what it would cost you. Me – I was making love to a beautiful, wonderful woman, and getting the chance of a child at the end of it. You – oh, Stella, why did you say 'yes'? Having to sleep with someone who was only a friend, again and again – oh God, why didn't you say 'no'? Why didn't you kick some sense into me on that plane? What I've put you through…"

He was wringing her hand now, moving it through his fingers so roughly and with such force that it hurt. Distress made his features desperate: he was breathing heavily, and his eyes darted from thing to half-lit thing in the clearing.

"For God's sake, Stella, say something. Say – anything, say we're still friends – say you hate me – say something before I lose it altogether. I can't go on using you – I want – you can't imagine how much I – just say _something_…"

He broke off and was silent, his head bowed so she couldn't see his face. Slowly, he brought his breathing under control and became still. Finally, forced into action by her lack of response, he raised his head and looked at her: his face was ugly with tears, though she hadn't heard a sound. "Please, say something."

She collected her thoughts from where they had fragmented around her, realising that these might be the most important words she ever said. She hadn't replied because she could not: he seemed to be simultaneously telling her he loved her and that their relationship was a mistake: that he wanted her to say 'I love you' and that everything had ended between them. Before answering, she had to understand, for her sake and his. She had to keep her head, and spare him any more pain.

What could she say? What would show him that she loved, wanted, needed him like the air she breathed: that he had no need to be afraid, or ashamed, of asking her to become the mother of his child? Perhaps they _had_ done things the wrong way round – but if they hadn't, the chances were they'd never have done anything at all. The last seven months had been uniquely, amazingly precious – for all the heartache, she wouldn't have changed a thing.

Except, of course, this. His anguish and despair – she longed to take that away. She would have taken away the anguish and the despair of the world to help him. What could she say to show such emotion? Where were the words to convey such love?

There were none. She would have to find some other way. She had come here with the intention of telling him she loved him, but what better way to tell him than to show him? She knew how deeply physical he was, despite his public reserve: all her fine words flew away into those dark, protective trees, and she turned to him, took his face in her free hand, and kissed him.

He pushed her away – gently, but decisively. "No – Stella, you don't understand. Didn't you hear what I was trying to say? It's OK – you don't have to do this any more."

She looked at him as if she were a tiddler sizing up a carp. Then she took the plunge. "Yes I do, Mac. No – don't look like that. The reason I do is because I want to, and the reason I want to is because I love you."

She paused, giving him time to process the information. "That's what I wanted to tell you. That's why I didn't want you to interrupt. And…" she lost her thread, but scrabbled after it as she saw him begin to speak again. There had been too much hesitation and misunderstanding between them – whatever the outcome, she was going to make sure now that he knew the truth. "No – no, let me. I love you, Mac Taylor – more than that, not just as a friend – though that as well – but I'm in love with you." Mac shook his head, but she was too far in now to turn back. "No – you'll hear me out.

"When I first came to the lab, you were obviously the most attractive man there. You will listen, Mac! But, equally obviously, you weren't available. Whatever I felt, I knew that, and kept away. When Claire…" She stopped, not wanting to cause him pain.

"Died," he said brutally. He was clearly unwilling to let either of them take an easy road through this.

"When Claire died," she repeated softly. "I was privileged that you turned to me – with others, I'm sure – as a friend. I was proud to be there for you, Mac, and I wouldn't have dreamed of asking for anything more, even if…"

"Even if?" he whispered.

"I had a lot of dates – you know that – but none of them worked, and some were disastrous. It took me a long while to figure out why: because I was looking for you."

"Oh God. Stella – no." He turned away from her. "No…"

"I wouldn't have missed a second," she said firmly. "Not a second, Mac. By the time you were with Peyton I knew… No, it's OK – you were happy. You were happy with her. And I was happy for you. And then… I don't know – you were right when you said we're both rubbish at this. It was my fault. I wasn't brave enough. Mac – I wasn't brave enough to risk you rejecting me."

He did not move: she could only imagine what might be going through his mind, but she ploughed on.

"Sometimes, I thought you were moving closer – after the fire, in Greece – and I ran away. I could have turned to you and held you so close – I wanted to, I wanted to hold you in my arms and never let you go – but what if you hadn't wanted me? It would have spoilt everything." Her voice grew quieter. "I remember the feel of your cheek when I kissed you… It felt like I'd come home."

"I'm sorry," he said from behind his hands. "Stella, I'm so sorry."

"I wasn't." Now, he looked up, and for the first time that evening met her eyes. The urge to lose herself in him – right here, right now – was almost irresistible, but she didn't give in: there was too much still to say. "I was spending almost every waking hour with the most wonderful man in the world." She smiled. "How could I not have been happy, Mac? You were all I wanted – and there you were. Perhaps – " she looked down at her hands " – perhaps I was afraid of commitment, and you were the perfect choice: someone I could love but never have to take that final step for. It's not something I'm proud of.

"But when you asked – when I saw you with those kids, holding Lucy – everything changed. I really thought that you might fall in love with me. I know – no, don't, Mac – I know it was stupid, but – well, it _was_ stupid. OK, I know that – but you were so gentle, and caring and – you were loving, I thought you were – and I was getting everything I ever wanted, with you, and a child…" She trailed off: she'd lost herself again.

"I used you, Mac."

"What? How? I don't understand."

"I agreed to have a child with you, and you thought it I was doing it for you, but all the while I was actually doing it for me." She was whispering now. "The chance to make love with you – to be able to love you without all the baggage of a relationship, responsibility – it was a dream come true. I – I feel very ashamed. I used you just to have fun – just to have you – feel you – oh Mac, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry – will you forgive me? Please – I love you – I do love you, Mac." The words were tumbling out now, as if desperate to escape before she shut them off forever.

"I love you with all my heart, and it would be an honour to have your children, and I'm sorry it hasn't worked yet but I have tried – I really have tried. I wanted so hard to please you – I thought if I pleased you, you'd stay… And then I lost it and threw a tantrum and lost you and – I can't bear the pain. I can't bear having had you and you not being there any more. And if you don't want to go on with this – I know you don't love me, but that's OK – I don't know what I'll do. God, I feel so pathetic. Mac – help me."

She stopped: she hadn't just run out of words, she'd run out of everything. Except love for him: that was a fathomless spring that would never run dry.

There was a long silence. The moon tracked across the clear sky, shifting the night's shadows across two people standing on the edge of their lives. Stella felt wretched – and yet, after a while, strangely at peace. She was with the most important person in the world and, after her declaration, he was still at her side: for this particular moment, she could not ask for more. To be in his presence, to breathe the same air – it was all she wanted.

Finally, he stirred. "Stella – I don't know what to say. I feel so guilty – so bad for having hurt you – over all that time."

Something chill settled on Stella's heart: he was preparing to reject her – he had to be. Well, if that was the case, then so be it – she was strong, and it wasn't as if anything substantive had changed. But oh, it had – it had. It was the absence of hope where before she had been unaware of its existence. She drooped slightly, gritting her teeth for whatever would follow.

"I – I always assumed… Every time I offered to help you – to put you up after Frankie, or the fire – you turned me away. I always cared for you, Stella – after I lost Claire you were all I had to hang on to. But – I thought you didn't want me. You never said you wanted me." He looked at her, anguish in his face. "How was I to know? What was it you once said – I've got no game? Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me know?"

He sat up straight, obviously trying to pull himself together, as the horror of his words shrank her soul. "I'm sorry – it's not your fault. When we were in Greece I thought – I thought maybe you realised that…" He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. "That I loved you. I tried to tell you. You – you were so gentle that I thought you knew. And – when Jess died – all I found myself doing was thanking God it wasn't you!"

"Mac!" Stella was appalled – and yet she understood. When he and Flack had been trapped in a bombed building, a part of her had been profoundly, guiltily grateful that Don had been injured and not Mac. She knew how he'd felt, and knew how wrong it was.

"I used you, too, Stella – I used my emotional influence over you to get myself a free ride – a lot of free rides – without having to even attempt a relationship. I'm a lot more culpable than you, and I know it. But – " he looked her directly in the eyes " – I'll tell you this, since we're being brutally honest. I wanted a child with you. I want a child with you. I love you, Stella, as a friend, a partner, a lover, a companion for the rest of my life, and if you were to give me a son – a daughter… Oh God…"

He began to cry. Not the silent tears he had shed before, but great ungainly sobs, bewildered and scared and utterly lost. Stella stared at him, hardly able to take it all in. But she knew that if she didn't react to him tonight she would never get the chance again. Mac had stripped himself bare, made his soul naked in the harsh light of truth, and no-one can survive that for very long. Soon, he would have to cover himself up again, and then she would never be able to find him.

He was hers – she knew it now – but she couldn't afford to sit back and enjoy that heady knowledge. She had to act, to show him that she was walking every step of the way with him along this unknown, alien road. She looked at him and her love overflowed.

"Hey," she said softly, standing and drawing him to his feet. "Hey – look at me, Mac." She gazed into his eyes, sore and miserable and full of unbelievable hope. "Oh you stupid, beautiful man. Come here."

She wrapped her arms around him, nestling her face into his neck, clinging to him as if to wreckage. She felt his arms encircle her, gently at first and then more firmly, more desperately, as if he would never let her go. They stood for a long time in the gathering cold of the New York night, drawing warmth and strength from each other, before Stella pulled away to look at him.

"Don't go," he murmured. "Don't go, Stella." He met her eyes. "I never want you to go." He stroked her face with a gloved hand. "Do you hear me? Never."

She felt her stomach turn to liquid in a way it had never done, even when he had been making love to her. To hear such a thing – that he loved her, genuinely, fiercely, loved her – was overwhelming. She had never imagined anything could be so powerful: perhaps, because she had waited so long, so secretly, so unknowingly… "Mac…"

"No – no words." He wrapped her up and kissed her, deeply and gently: urgently but without any of the desperation that had marked some of their encounters. This kiss had another quality altogether: this kiss was the first in a series that would last a lifetime. She felt him move, and realised that he had slipped his gloves off and was reaching inside her coat. His hand on her skin was – despite the gloves – icy cold, and she shivered with the sudden, delicious sensation.

His hand moved across her body, up to her breast. He shifted slightly, and without thinking she responded, covering his buttocks with her hands and pulling his body to hers. But that squashed his hand between them, and he clearly had other ideas. Pushing her away, he caressed her stomach, sending shafts of desire through her like bursts of gunfire. She began to moan.

Then he was talking, whispering urgently in her ear, his breath misty and steaming in the cold. "How long is it since you've done it outside?"

It took a few seconds for the implications of his question to sink in. "Mac! You – you can't…"

"Oh can't – _we?_" He looked around: the clearing was almost invisible in the dark: the only reason they could make out the trees crowding around them was that their eyes were completely adjusted to the night. His breathing was fast – almost harsh – and his eyes glittered with excitement and desire. "Stella – my Stella – come on – here – now – yes?"

"No! We're in a public place – Central Park, Mac! What if someone found us?"

"No chance!" He was caressing her all over now, feeling for the fastenings of her clothes, panting with a new and ruthless lust quite different from anything she'd seen before. "Pretend you're seventeen again – wild and crazy and here, with me…"

Her own breath began to quicken under his touch. She wanted him – she wanted him more than she'd wanted anything or anyone in her entire life! – but here – in Central Park? Under the trees, shaded by bushes, cushioned by the soft, damp grass, last year's leaves sticking to her clothes, her hair, her hands…

She began to pluck at his clothes, answering his madness with her own. "Mac – oh God, Mac…"

They flung themselves down, crazy with desire and the new knowledge of each other's love. Mac's hands were everywhere, freezing cold and urgent, requiring her very soul: and in return he opened himself to her, turned himself inside out and demanded to be completely, utterly, devastatingly known.

When they climaxed together, impervious to the hardness of the ground and the chill of the air, hands over each other's mouths to stop their cries leaving the clearing, Stella felt as if the world had exploded; as they held each other afterwards, shuddering in the wicked deliciousness of it all, she knew that everything had changed. For all the times they'd been together, all the intimacy they'd shared, this was their first time together as true, inseparable, lovers.

And the world was suddenly glorious.

* * *

_To be concluded in chapter 6_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – July 2010

"You sure about this?"

"What, Mac? You want me to quit?"

"You wouldn't quit if the end of the world was nigh. I just want you to take care."

"Come on then – _old man!"_ She ran ahead of him, thrilled to be alive: a spot of Mac-teasing was just the cure for any aches and pains.

She knew she had to be careful: things were different now – it wasn't just her any more. She was responsible for other lives, and that responsibility was at once heavy and exhilarating. But a good bit of exercise – and three hundred fifty or so steps up the Statue of Liberty counted as a good bit of exercise – was just what she needed. She wasn't going to spend time sitting on sofas with her feet up: she was going to run and swim and dance and – always – be the Stella Mac had fallen in love with.

She shivered. It wasn't new knowledge: it was now July, ten months since Mac's request had changed their lives, and three months since they had both finally accepted the inevitable, confessed their feelings, and never looked back. God, she thought, what fools supposedly intelligent people can be; what anguish we put ourselves through, all for shyness and pride. If only everyone was a bit more honest – a bit less scared. Huh – just what Lindsay had said.

But that Mac was in love with her – not just loving her, but _in love_ – what a difference that had made! He was a wonderful lover, in every sense of the word, and she had come to appreciate him outside the bedroom as much as in: his gentleness, intuition and – surprisingly – sense of fun had flipped her world on its head, turning its greys to colour and its colours to jewels. She felt more like a heroine in an impossibly romantic novel than a real woman in the real world. When Mac held her close as she drifted off to sleep, she knew she could never be happier; when Mac smiled at her across the kitchen and made coffee exactly the way she liked it, she knew she could never be happier; when Mac wrestled her in intellectual argument on some knotty point of politics or art, she knew she could never be happier. She wasn't good enough for him, she was aware of that – but did she look like a woman who cared?

One of the strangest joys of their relationship was his gradually-revealed vulnerabilities. As they grew closer, he had shyly opened himself up to her scrutiny, and she had discovered things that, she realised, no-one but Claire had ever known. At first, she had been tempted to dismiss some of his weaknesses: just in time, she realised how privileged she was to be allowed to share them.

He was – for example – scared of spiders. Such a girly fear – and it made him mad – but it was deep and visceral, and she saw his relief at having someone to call on when a particularly large or defiant specimen looked him in the eye. It ran in the family, he said – his father had always been terrified of them, and it had been his mom's job to keep the Taylor household bug and spider free.

And he hated confined spaces. One evening she had closed the curtains in his bedroom, and wondered at his reaction as he almost ran to open them again. He had said he loved the lights of New York too much to shut them out: now, she knew that two months' imprisonment in an underground cell when on special ops in Iraq had left an indelible mark that only death would wash away. Suddenly, his insistence on glass walls for his office made sense. He told her no more – said it was still classified – but the remembered horror was alive in his eyes, and she wept inside that healing such pain was beyond her capabilities.

Some pain, however, she could ease. She assumed that he had largely ceased to mourn Claire, but as he began to share his deepest thoughts and longings, she discovered that this was not so: there was a place in his heart that bled afresh every day for his dead young wife. Stella made no attempt to heal the wound, merely trying to soothe its ache, sharing it with him and carrying half his burden. Gradually, Mac's references to Claire became more light-hearted – he talked of her with laughter rather than sorrow, and began to share anecdotes of their life together that clearly gave him real pleasure. She found herself – not for the first time – furious with Peyton for not seeing and meeting the needs of the man.

A clatter of footsteps up the narrow metal stairway – Mac had terrible feet and always wore the most solid shoes she'd ever seen – and the object of her thoughts was by her side, panting slightly and doing his best to disguise it. "All that running and swimming," she said, "and still you wheeze after a few stairs? You'll have to get fitter than this!"

He grimaced. "Too much sex," he said. "Wears me out."

She giggled like a schoolgirl: immediately behind him two real schoolgirls were standing gaping, clearly of the opinion that no-one over twenty-five ever had sex, and that most people over twenty had probably given up on it. She leaned towards them. "Twice a night," she whispered. "Every night. But what can I do?"

The schoolgirls fled.

"You're wicked."

"I know…"

"Pity there are people around. We could be wicked together, right here."

"Mac!"

He grinned. "You always use that tone of voice when I suggest anything interesting." He paused. "But then you do it anyway!" He stepped closer. "Come on – let's give them nightmares."

He kissed her. In public, in full view of anyone in Brooklyn – if they had a telescope – and in front of half a dozen fourteen-year-olds, he kissed her. And not a paltry peck on the cheek, either: he kissed her as passionately, as deeply and as fiercely as he had ever done in private. He kept his hands carefully on her back, but otherwise buried himself in her as if this was the last kiss they would ever share. His lips on hers were harsh, bruising – his mouth angrily eager – his tongue scouring and insistent. She closed her eyes and sank: there was nothing in the world except this kiss, nothing except his body hardening against hers, nothing except the heat and the fire and the want in her belly.

She knew they were 'on display', but still began to lose herself: the physical sensations, and the emotion they represented, were as intoxicating as champagne. She began to feel the need build inside her, the small flares of desire that gathered together to form an irresistible fire that could only be quenched by having him, completely and utterly. And then – mercifully – he pulled her back, panting and breathless, into the real world. Gathering herself from the brink, she looked surreptitiously around, suddenly guilty, even though it had only been a bit of fun to scare the horses. "God, Mac," she whispered, "what are you thinking?"

"Didn't know thinking was required," he whispered back. "Look – everyone's gone."

He was right: the schoolgirls had vanished, and Stella heard an uneasy shuffling on the stairs as other tourists hesitated about interrupting this couple who – it seemed – were about to indulge in public sex. "That's so embarrassing. We're supposed to be responsible citizens, not – not – "

"Not in love?" Now he was serious, his eyes deep and dark, and his hands on her were hands of love, not lust.

She closed her eyes and leant into him. He pulled her to him and together, as others finally joined them, they gazed out across the city they both loved. She felt overwhelmed with joy and humility. She shivered, and he drew her closer.

To think, it had so nearly come to an end not two weeks ago…

* * *

It was a tiny thing – a little shove – a jostle at the station entrance. Commuters, vying for space on the New York subway, and some of them none too careful about how they got it. An elbow here, a bag there – nothing out of the ordinary – and before she knew it, Stella was lying at the bottom of a flight of concrete stairs.

In such situations, New Yorkers divide into three camps. The first ignore the problem: they're late, or squeamish, or think if they don't look, it didn't happen. The second gather round, stare and mutter a bit, and wonder if they should do something. The third call 911, clear people out of the way, and have a tendency to save lives.

Later, Mac suggested that the God she didn't believe in must have been looking out for her that morning: the member of camp number three who came to her aid was not only level-headed and competent, but a doctor to boot. He had no reply to Stella's terse response that perhaps next time God would circumvent the problem by saving her from falling: but the fact that – apart from cuts and bruises, a cracked rib and a beautiful black eye – she was unhurt, was more important than anything else. Mac held her as tightly as he dared as she lay in her hospital bed, and she found a moment in the midst of her pain to be grateful to – _fate_ – for bringing them together.

* * *

"I want to go home."

"Well you can't," Mac was infuriatingly calm. "You need rest, and they want to do some more blood work."

Stella wriggled irritably, then groaned in pain. "Oh God… When did I last take pain killers?"

"Half an hour ago."

"Oh…" She sighed, then realised that this wasn't the best way to stop him worrying. She was fine – everything just hurt like hell – he should go home and get some sleep. "Listen, Mac, I'll be OK, why don't – "

"No."

"Sorry?"

"No. I'm not leaving you. You're my partner and I'm staying right here." He leaned closer and whispered in mock aggressiveness. "Get used to it!"

"Ow… Mac, oh God, don't make me laugh." She could feel the tears in her eyes – real tears of real pain – but that part of her brain unaffected by either pain or drugs thrilled to his words. _You're my partner._ And he didn't mean professionally. She smiled wanly at him, gripping his hand. He ought to go – there wasn't anything he could do here – but she was selfishly glad that he'd decided to stay. She blinked in the harsh light. They'd pumped a delicatessen of drugs into her and she was beginning to grow sleepy: all she wanted to do was fade into unconsciousness, Mac's hand in hers, and see his face at her side when she woke up.

"Go to sleep, Stellie," Mac whispered. He kissed her poor cut forehead, and she felt his heat as he leant close to her. Then she slipped away from everything, and ceased to be aware.

Almost.

She knew she wasn't dreaming: dreams didn't hurt this much. And dreams weren't this coherent, and if she was dreaming Mac would be beside her, rather than hovering in the background and occasionally shouting at someone. Things were very bright – all the colours in the room were deep and intense – and there were too many people round her bed.

She opened her eyes and looked up at a ceiling of faces, all crowding in and suffocating her. She groaned, but couldn't move: she was drowning in a sea of people and no-one was here to help her. She tried to call for Mac but couldn't make her lips move. She closed her eyes again. It seemed the only sensible thing to do.

Afterwards, Mac told her what happened. Her memories were fragmentary, disjointed: she knew there had been raised voices, a lot of machinery, anxious glances and long periods of silence, but could make no sense of it until he filled in the blanks.

* * *

He sat and watched her sleep, grateful that she was out of pain at last. Occasionally her hand tightened on his, even in unconsciousness: the movement scared him, because it spoke of a love so vast that he could hardly comprehend it. Stella wore their relationship lightly, rarely plumbing his depths of seriousness: but he knew the strength of her love, and almost cowered under its weight.

It was some hours later when a doctor entered the room, a worried expression on her face: Mac, who had begun to doze, was immediately alert. He sat in silence as the doctor looked at the monitors, consulted her notes, and touched the sleeping woman's face and free hand. Then she glanced at him and spoke. "Mr Bonasera?"

"Um – no. My name's Mac Taylor. What's going on?"

"Ah. I need to contact Mr Bonasera. Do you have a number for him?"

Mac felt stupid. "There isn't a Mr Bonasera."

"Then do you know who's the next of kin?"

He went cold. There was only one reason for asking that question. "Er – no. She doesn't have any family. I – I'm her best friend." It sounded pathetic, a poor phrase to explain what Stella meant to him.

The doctor drew herself up. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, Mr Taylor. Family only."

"She is my family." He couldn't organise his thoughts: he, the best interrogator his unit had ever had, was lost for words. Why, he wondered, should he think of that now? "I'm – " 'lover' seemed such an odd word " – I'm the nearest she's got to family. We work together. If I go she'll be alone. Please – tell me what's wrong."

The woman's slender Asian face softened a little: she looked at their clasped hands, and seemed to understand that this was not a common friendship. "Ms Bonasera – "

"Stella," Mac said. "Her name's Stella."

The woman softened further. "Stella's suffered multiple cuts and bruises – you can see that for yourself – but there was also some internal bleeding. Not a great deal, but enough to require the administration of prednisone and advil – for the pain." She paused. "The bleeding has been arrested, but there are possible contraindications for someone in her condition. We've withdrawn the drugs now, but there is a slight danger… Sir, it's obvious that the two of you are close – can you tell me about her social life? Her sexual history?" Mac blinked. "I'm sorry to have to ask you," she continued. "If there's someone else who might know more details…"

He shook his head. "No," he whispered, "no-one." What the hell was going on? What was wrong with Stella?

Then, like a blow, it hit him: the test Adam had done – what, three years ago? – must have given a false negative. Stella – his beloved, beautiful Stella – was HIV positive, and the blood tests they'd done here had confirmed it. "Oh God," he whimpered. He tried to regulate his breathing: losing control wouldn't help anyone. At least she was in the right place: she could start an antiretroviral regime immediately, and they could decide how to face the future together. And if he – if he was also positive, it would mean he could go on loving her as he wished without her having an excuse to push him away.

"Mr Taylor?"

He swallowed. Beautiful Stella, hair blowing in the wind, dancing in the hallway, clinging to him in passion… He watched a tear land fatly on her hand, and realised it was his. "She was exposed to the HIV virus a few years ago," he said quietly. "She had a PCR test – it was negative. Are you saying – we were wrong?" He looked up at the doctor. "She's positive?"

The woman shook her head, puzzled. "No – we've found no evidence to suggest she's HIV positive. But I really need to speak to her husband, or partner. You said you were a colleague?"

"Yes, but – "

The doctor appeared to decide the time for firmness had come. "Look, I'll allow you to stay for the moment – you're right, being alone isn't going to help her – but I do need to find the father of her child. Can you give me a name? An address, a contact number?"

Mac's mind went as blank as an unused sheet of paper: he stared at the doctor with cow eyes, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, saying nothing. What?

_What?_

He tried to speak, but could only open his mouth ineffectually. He felt as if someone had just punched him in the gut, or he had fallen twenty storeys and found that he was still alive. Instead, he shook his head: it was all he was capable of at that moment.

"You didn't know she was pregnant? So you can't tell me how long it is since she conceived?"

Mac tried again to speak: his throat was dry, and his tongue seemed the size of Alaska. "No," he managed to rasp. "I – didn't…" He heard a clattering, and realised it was coming from him: he was trembling so violently that he was making the bed shake. He turned to the unconscious woman, her face peppered with wounds, her poor cheeks blue with bruises, her jaw bandaged where it had hit the bottom step, and thought she had never looked more beautiful. Stella – his Stella – their child…

He reached out to cradle her face with his free hand, staring at her as if she were the centre and circumference of all that mattered, or ever had mattered, to him. Which, at that moment, she was.

* * *

When he had recovered – and the doctor had apologised – he was told what had happened: there was a danger, given Stella's physical condition, that the drugs she had received could cause a spontaneous abortion. He was almost sick at the thought. But, he was assured, if nothing happened within forty-eight hours, all would be well.

Mac never shared with Stella the hell he endured waiting for that window to pass_. I sat with you, _was all he would say. The horror of his solitary emotional journey as she was tested and retested and fought to keep their child was beyond the ability of human words to describe, or human mind to endure remembering. All that mattered was that, at the end of it, he was able to take his family – both members of his family – home.

* * *

And now here she was, scampering around the Statue of Liberty's crown like a twelve-year-old – and feeling like one, too. She tried to imagine what it must have been like for him, sitting next to her and not knowing what the next hour or minute might bring. He was right: she had to take care of herself, for all of them.

"You know," she murmured, "we'll have to tell everyone." He raised his eyebrows. "Well, it'll become obvious soon enough. You want to be the object of office gossip?"

He pulled a face. "God, no. You can do it."

"Oh no – we'll do it together. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

She kissed him on the cheek, revelling in the smooth softness of his skin: as soft as the baby he had placed inside her. "Tomorrow."

* * *

"What's this all about?" Lindsay whispered to Hawkes as they sat in Mac's office the following morning. Even Sid – who should have been at home on a day's leave instead of skulking in the corner eating a bagel – was there.

"I don't know. Perhaps we're all being fired! How's Danny?"

"Oh, he's fine. You know."

Hawkes nodded. "Uh oh! Here we go…"

The glass door opened and Mac and Stella walked in. Mac sat down at his desk – and Stella stood behind him, her stance still slightly awkward from her injured ribs. That, thought Lindsay, was very odd. In the ensuing pause, they both looked around, almost – almost, Lindsay realised, as if they were a couple.

A couple…

She could barely subdue an excited squeak. Danny had been right all those months before, after all: if she needed any more proof, here it was!

But Stella had started to speak. "Ten months ago we all went to Lucy Messer's baptism," she said, and Lindsay grew red. "It was great – we all had fun, and…" She paused, as if lost for words.

Mac leaned forward. "Stella and I had a conversation that day which is going to change our lives. It was always going to take time to make things happen, but now we want to tell you what's going on."

Lindsay felt sick: Mac and Stella – Mac or Stella –were going to leave the lab, and nothing would ever be the same again.

"We – we saw how happy you were with Lucy," Stella continued, "and we're not – well, we don't have children of our own – I mean there's Reed…"

"And so," Mac interrupted, "we came to an arrangement, Stella and I. And frankly – " he leaned back in his chair and regarded his team sardonically, " – I can't make out why some of you haven't already guessed what I'm going to say. You're supposed to be detectives!"

There was a pause, and as everyone turned to look at each other in puzzlement, Lindsay saw Stella move closer to Mac and quietly put a hand on his shoulder. Briefly, their eyes met, and the truth flashed through the younger woman like fire. She bit her lip to stop herself grinning, and Stella's eyebrows flicked up in confirmation.

But Adam got there first. "Call me sentimental," he said, looking round nervously, "but I think you're getting married!"

Mac smiled a slow, lazy smile, as though the idea was new to him but might have merit if taken under advisement. "Well," he said, "it's a thought, but no, we hadn't discussed that. I guess we're just going to have to tell you, though I have to say it's a pretty poor show that none of you have worked it out."

"Lindsay has," said Stella.

"Lindsay?"

Lindsay felt tears start behind her eyes. "You guys," she said, "you guys are going to have a baby."

Mac put his hand over Stella's. The grin on his face was as wide as anyone in the lab had ever seen – in fact, some who hadn't known him before 9/11 had never seen it – as the news sank in and the team began to recover from their shock and congratulate the new parents to be. There were hugs and kisses and tears and a lot of tummy-touching.

But it was for Lindsay that both Mac and Stella reserved their greatest affection: quiet, feisty Lindsay, who had stared into the mouth of hell and stuck her tongue out at the devil, before shouldering a thousand burdens and walking on through life with style. If they could emulate her, they thought as they held each other close in the darkness of the welcoming night, they'd be doing OK.

_The End_


End file.
